Flightless Birds
by amazinglilli
Summary: The games are over. The war is over. But what do I have left? Prim is gone. Finnick is gone. Cinna is gone. Mom is in District 4. Gale is in District 2. Everything I had that was even close to normal is now nonexistent. The only thing I have are my memories, and even those might not be safe anymore. Once again everything is going to change, hopefully this time for the better.
1. Chapter 1

I sit up in bed, my eyes wide open, paralyzed with fear, as I try to catch my breath.

_pant, pant, pant_

I haven't gotten a good nights sleep in months, but that doesn't stop the nightmares from returning. They have become less frequent since Peeta started staying with me again, but they still haunt me night after night.

"It's okay, Katniss, it's not real," Peeta says rubbing my back slowly as he tries to get the images out of my head.

"It was Snow," I whisper, the words seeping out of my mouth like the poison from his sores. "He got her and destroyed her. I was supposed to protect her, but I failed. She called out for me, but it was too late. She was so mangled and torn apart..." I pause, too choked up to talk. "...she was so young and so pure and I let her get torn to bits." My sister who I had volunteered for in the first games, the sister I swore to protect with my life, now dead. Waking up wasn't going to make that go away.

"It's not your fault Katniss, she was inside the gates," he says softly, but he knows I can't just let it go.

"I could have gotten to the square quicker, warned her," I say pulling at my hair.

"You know that's not true. You'd both be gone and she would have never forgiven you. The thing she wanted most was to help you and keep you alive. Why else do you think she became so strong? It wasn't because she had to, but because she wanted to, to protect you. She would want you to be happy and move on. Wouldn't you want the same thing for her?"

Somehow he always know what to say, no matter what the situation.

"Just go back to sleep. You need your rest," he continues, snuggling me close and kissing my forehead. My eyelids drowsily beat shut in a peaceful silence, something only achieved by me in his arms.

I wake up a few hours later to the tickling smell of eggs and rabbit tips. I quietly climb out of bed and tiptoe downstairs to see Peeta slaving over the hot stove. Three loaves of fresh baked bread sit on the counter, steam still flowing from their warm centers. At least three plates of food sits beside them and he continues to make more. His foot taps rapidly on the wooden floor and sweat slowly drips down his face. As soon as I walk in the room he looks at me, his eyes showing me how nervous he is. I can tell something is wrong just by his look. He never was good at hiding things from me.

"What's going on, Peeta? What's wrong?" I ask quietly inching closer towards the counter and picking up a rabbit tip.

"What do you mean?" he says smiling nervously. "Who says I can't make you a nice breakfast just because?"

"Don't lie to me. What happened?"

"You got a letter..." He pauses, his palms turning red. "...from Gale's boss. They sent it to Haymitch by mistake. It doesn't look good."

My legs go numb. "What happened?" I insist, though I already know the answer.

"He's gone."

It is as though the world has frozen in time and in one instant, it all falls apart. All life becomes a blur. All feeling becomes numb. All noise becomes silent. I don't even realize I'm screaming until I feel Peeta's hand on my cheek. He kneels down and pulls my shaking body close, but even that doesn't calm me down.

It's at least an hour before he slowly helps me up from the floor, though my legs are as useful as twigs to support my weight. Everything feels blurry, like I'm in a daze. The blinding sensation is so strong that it reminds me of the tracker-jacker venom from my first games.

"Come on, right... there," Peeta says, helping me to the chair in front of the fire place. He can obviously tell that I'm not going to make it any further.

"H-how... What happened?"

"His room-mate found him dead on the floor..." He pauses and crouches down in front of next to me before slowly and gently cupping my hand in his. "...he killed himself."

"No, h-he wouldn't do that. What about his family? What about me? He would have told me," I say trying to climb out of the chair, but I'm too weak.

Peeta soothingly hushes me and runs his fingers over the smooth side of my hand in an attempt to comfort me. His expression is so pitiful, something I dread more than his words.

"He left a note, Katniss. He's gone."

As grief settles in I feel even more helpless. Once again I find myself practicing a hunger strike, though this time involuntary. I don't talk much, at all, not for the next week or so. I don't even move out of the chair. All I do is stare at the fire, all day, like somehow it will bring him back.

I hold onto the possibility that it is just a mistake, that somehow he will spring up out of the ashes and everything will go back to normal. Us hunting in the woods and trading our game at the hub. Him and I against the world, but soon I remember even that isn't normal anymore. It hasn't been for a long time. I haven't seen him in months, and yet that is what hurt the most, all the possibilities. All the opportunities for us to see each other again and attempt to get things back to what they used to be, or close to it, gone. It's just like the mining accident, the parachutes, or the bombings, everything I have ever known is suddenly gone, and it's never coming back.

* * *

**First off I would like to say that I do not own The Hunger Games or any of the characters within the stories by Suzanne Collins.**

**Well, I hope you all liked it! Please review! I love my fans and I would love to know what you think (don't worry about being harsh, I love constructive criticism). I am always trying to improve my writing in any way possible so PLEASE REVIEW!**

**Also, I tend to reuse some of my minor characters in other fan fictions so you can have more of a back-story or feel of the character that you don't necessarily get from just one of them, so if you want to find out more just check them out.**

**If you like this story then I suggest you check out my fan fiction(s): Innocent in Water or Clove**

**I love my fans so spread the word and never give up what you love. Fan fiction for life! :) -amazinglilli**


	2. Chapter 2

"That dress looks beautiful on you," Peeta says as I walked down the stairs.

"You don't have to say that," I say coldly. "It's not going to change what it's for."

Somehow I never can see it, how Gale, my mother, Peeta, and Prim can always call me beautiful. To me when I look in the mirror, no matter what I'm wearing, all I see is the pain and loss I cause everyone I love. No amount of compliments can cover that up.

I appear almost unrecognizable compared to my old self. The only thing that looks the same is the dress. It was my mothers. She left a couple of them behind after the District 12 bombings. It's a black cotton dress that clings to my body before slowly fanning out at the waist. The delicate black lace sleeves lay over my tough scar covered freckled shoulders. Sheer black stockings line my legs all the way down to my chunky loafers, still speckled with coal dust.

I look at myself in the mirror as I braid my charred hair. It still hasn't fully repaired itself since the incident, but then again neither has my skin. I twist my braids, like my mother did on reaping day. Peeta notices the resemblance too. I see it in his face through the corner of the mirror that hangs in the hallway as he looks down at the floor.

He wears black pants with a dark grey button-up shirt. His hair is classically greased back and tucked behind his ears. It's a little overgrown, but barley noticeable. His usual smile is hidden by sadness, like a cloudy day hiding the sun from shining out onto the world. He didn't know Gale that well, but they talked a little, mainly because of me. Their only real relationship was an understanding or slight friendship, if that, but I guess that doesn't matter when you lose someone. A loss is a loss, no matter how you say it.

"We should really go get Haymitch," Peeta said, creeping up behind me.

"No, I'll go. Johanna and Annie will be here soon. They'll need someone to show them the way."

"Are you sure?" he says, his hands holding mine.

"Yeah," I say, struggling to show a smile. "I'll see you in an hour, okay?" I place my hand on his shoulder and give him a quick peck on the cheek before leaving.

* * *

"Haymitch, you awake?" I yell opening his front door.

As I walk in, the overpowering smell of alcohol hits me like a punch in the stomach. Usually I'm immune to it, but Peeta has been the one checking up on him since what happened, so I have lost my tolerance for the stench of musk drenched in lighter fluid. The odor goes straight up nose to the extent that I'm left struggling to find breathable air.

The entire first floor is disgusting. A thin layer of grime sits on the carpet. A dim light glows over the haze of dingy drunkenness. Half empty bottles and glasses with only an inch of water left in them from the melted ice cover every usable surface. A few of them even turn over to spill their contents onto the ground. If one were to even bring a candle in here the entire place would go up in flames.

Haymitch sits slumped over in a wooden arm chair at his dining room table, his body making the only spot that isn't filled with alcohol in the room.

I lift up a lock of his greasy blonde hair and yell, "Haymitch, get up!" into his ear. He doesn't respond. I quickly make a plan in my head and walk over to the other end of the table, claiming two empty beer bottles. I swiftly raise them above my head and bring the rounded side straight across the edge of the table in an ear-shattering crash, guaranteed to wake even the heaviest sleepers.

"Ahhhh...what the hell was that for?" he screams, waving around his knife around and swearing.

"I tried yelling, but you were passed out. What else did you expect me to do?" I ask, irritated.

I walk around him and to the dull hanging curtains. I pull each side towards its hook so that bright rays of sunlight prickle the corneas of his eyes, begging for his lids to open. His eyes squint deeply, not wanting to give into my intentions.

_He must be joking,_ I think. _Since_ when _have I ever been gentile? If anything I was understanding of his situation and what he had been through, more now than ever. _

As he begins to pull himself out of the chair I turn on the bath facet and put on a cup of coffee. Something has to get rid of his hangover.

Once he finally does pry himself out of the chair, he can barely stumble towards the bathroom. He's so intoxicated I practically have to drag him into the shower. Moaning as I pull his head under the facet, he starts swearing and spitting out water all over the bathroom floor.

"Ahhhh," he screams sloshing his head around, trying to wiggle it away from my grasp. "Ever heard of careful?"

"We don't have time for that. The funeral starts in forty-five minutes and we're _not _going to be late," I answer, standing up and throwing a towel at him.

" "Well aren't you especially happy today, sweetheart," Haymitch says, drying his long greasy hair with the cotton towel. Each strand leaves a series of drops on the dirty wooden floor.

"Sorry, it's just... hard," I say, collapsing into a chair and covering my face with the tired palms of my hands.

"Trust me, I know," he sighs, walking over behind me, putting his hand on my shoulder. "I know."

His hand rests like a rock on my arm. The pressure nearly makes me collapse, but he beats me to it. His drowsy intoxicated body thuds as it his the ground, his face hitting it first. His nose smushed against the carpet, leaving shallow indents of its pattern to be inspected later.

I lift up my head with a sigh. "Oh, what the hell? Your probably better off with a drink in you anyways," I say, giving up and pouring some whisky into his cup. "It's better than cold turkey."

It is true. I remember those horrible months of sobriety. His rambling attacks on everything from me to the carrot stew. His eyes were always bloodshot, his hands trembling, and his temper was even worse than usual. Let's just say that Buttercup wasn't the only thing giving people scratches during the middle of the night. Since our stay in District 13, I haven't seen him without a bottle in hand, and he actually seems more pleasant. As long as he isn't passed-out-drunk, why can't he have a little? I even reach for the glass cup on the table, gulping it down quickly before stopping to cough soon after as I feel the burning liquid trickle down my throat.

"Don't hurt yourself, sweetheart," he laughs.

"Oh, shut up and, _cough,_ put some clothes on," I say, holding out my hand to help him steady himself.

He slowly gets up and limps around the house, gathering his clothes and getting changed. He wears his usual, a light blue button-up shirt with black pants and a grey vest. His sloppy hair falls loosely at his chin, still wet from the bath. I walk over to him and fix his tie and collar. He looks okay, or at least decent.

"So, we should be going," I say.

"I am sorry. You know that, right?" he says, his eyes now fixated on mine. His seriousness catches me by surprise. "I know Gale meant a lot to you."

My eyes start to water.

_Not this. Not now. _

This is why I came here, to avoid the tears I've been trying to hold back, to hide the broken pieces that have been left behind. Haymitch is the only one who understands that sometimes it's better to keep things bottled up inside.

"I'm not gonna lie to you and say it'll go away, but it does get easier with time." His voice is hollow. I can almost taste the tears that lie in the back of his throat, just waiting for the perfect time to be let out.

"I know." I sigh. "Can we just go?"

"Um, sure. After you, sweetheart."


	3. Chapter 3

I always hated fall. It's like a slow and painful death. Everything in sight begins to deteriorate, harden, and eventually die. Every leaf turns brown. Every sky goes grey. Every soul turns cold. The bitter landscape becomes a landfill for lost dreams to come and die. The worst part is that it's only the beginning, the beginning of the end. Fall marks the time to sit back and remember all the things that have gone wrong, every last one.

Complete silence accompanies me and Haymitch on our long walk to the cemetery. The only thing I can hear is the stiff grass crunching beneath my feet. A cool breeze sends a shiver down my spine as it blows by. The roads are hard. People have began to pave most of them since the rebuilding of the district began, but many of them are still just hardened mud. My stomping feet tare into the muddy clumps, spewing dirt and debris into the air. Everything seems calm.

I ball up my hand so that the cool tips are buried inside my thick palm, careful not to move too much and unbalance Haymitch who is still gripping my arm tight in an attempt not to fall over. His drooping face gives signs that he's about to vomit, but he keeps it all inside. His eyelids droop in the dazing cold. The streets are empty, not a soul in sight, although maybe that's for the better. No more people to tell me that they're _"sorry about my loss"_ or that _"he's in a better place now."_ Sometimes its good to get away from the world, at least for a moment.

The cemetery is small, not that extravagant. It lies on a large grassless patch next to the meadow. Simple stone headstones growing moss, vines, and other things jut out of the ground. I pick up three small rocks that lay in the dirt path as we slowly pass row after row of graves.

Somehow, almost a blessing in itself, the damages to the cemetery were only minimal when the Capitol bombs hit the district. A few things flew out of place, but it's very hard to blow something out of the ground using only the brute strength of an explosive. Mainly there were just some knocked over tombstones and a few misplaced ones.

That was the first thing that happened when people started coming back to out utterly destroyed home. We—as a district—laid the dead to rest. It took months. There were so many bodies, many unidentifiable, that we put them all in a mass grave. Only few got there own spots. In the ground they stay together, like they were, like we all were back then.

The feeble black iron archway to cemetery stands in front of me. Even its thin twisting bars seem intimidating to me. I only make it a few feet down the dirt path before Haymitch wriggles out from my grasp. His drunk form limps down the path in front of me. I'm about to go after him when I see it.

My sisters grave.

It's like a light switch goes off in my brain. I change from feeling empty to feeling everything. Hot tears stream down my face as I read it.

~ 0 ~

_Here lays Primrose Marie Everdeen_

_friend, sister, daughter, healer_

_May she forever rest in peace_

~ 0 ~

My knees clash against the ground, my legs collapsing beneath me. The delicate skin of them hits the tough grass like a ton of bricks. My hands shake as I place one of the small rocks on her headstone. Only short breaths can make it out of my throat. Everything else dies in the air, never truly audible. I'm too choked up. The searing hot tears of my own making burn my throat. It takes almost everything I have to somehow have two simple words escape my lips in a quiet sob.

"I'm sorry."

I cover my mouth, trying to hide my cries but it's no use. The loud wails soon devour any sanity that I've been holding onto. My hands move over my face in a failed attempt to hide myself from the world and I begin to bawl my eyes out even harder. My fingers tremble with each cry that escapes my lips. When I finally lift up my head, I glance to my left and see my father's headstone.

"Daddy," I whisper, running my fingers over the smooth side of the stone. "I miss you!" I sniffle loudly, wiping my wet eyes with the sleeve of my sweater. "I miss us going to the lake, and hunting in the woods, and our little old house, and hearing your voice. I don't know what to do. Everything is different now." I bite down on my lower lip hoping that no one close can hear my sobs.

For a while I just sit there in silence, too numb to move. Eventually I stand up and brush the dirt off my dress. Quiet tears still rain down my cheeks as I stumble to get back on the path. I'm almost to Gale's plot when I see Peeta standing a few feet away, silent with his hands in his pocket. His eyes are filled with fresh tears, his head bowed down in sorrow. As I step closer the words on the stone come into focus. It's his parents.

Almost right after I showed up the Capitol by dismantling the arena with it's own weapons, fire bombs started pouring down like rain here. Almost everything went up in flames. Gale led the survivors into the woods where after a couple of days the hovercrafts from District 13 brought them away from the burning rubble. Only Prim, my mother, Gale, his family, and another 10% of the population made it to out alive. Peeta's family wasn't one of them.

They found his parents and two older brothers in the ruins of their bakery. His parents were killed on impact, but his brothers weren't as lucky. They survived the impact and tried to stop the endless sea of smoke and ash from reaching their lungs by holding damp rags to their mouths. It would have worked, if only there was a way out. When the bakery wall fell down it blocked any way of escaping the deadly fog. They suffocated to death, unable to escape.

They were some of the few that were able to be identified. Peeta had to do that. He couldn't look at me for a week after they dug them out of the rubble. He knew that they had died—since they didn't arrive in District 13 along with the rest of the refugees—but knowing and seeing are a two different thing. Having to see you loved one's cold dead corpse being tugged out of the rubble and thrown into a wheel barrow like a rag doll is almost too much, especially if you could have done something to prevent it.

He comes here every first Saturday of the month. I understand why. He feels responsible for their death, just like I do for Prim's, though I don't feel any relief by visiting the dead. For me it only brings up the things I want to forget. I've only ever been here twice, to the cemetery. Once for my father's burial and once for Prim's. For me, it's just too hard to face death, too hard to face all the memories and people that occupy them. I honestly don't know how he does it, facing this thing again, after all that has happened to us. He says that he likes the sadness because "It means that all of it was real. All of the memories and things that happened were real, are real. Sometimes it's just good to know that you can still feel, that you can still tell what sadness is. You know?"

Sometimes I have to remember what it was like for him, before all this. He knew what the world was like, but he tried not to get too involved. He never broke the law. He never talked out of place. He never knew what it was like to have his life on the line, to know that one wrong move could make everything he cared about could disappear.

As I walk towards him I try to remember the old him, the boy with the bread. The boy that risked a beating to give me some burnt bread. The one that gave me hope. The innocent merchant boy with the blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes that cried when his name was picked. The one who could turn almost anything into a joke.

_Oh, how our lives have changed since then. __Who would have thought things would turn out this way? We've both changed so much. The Games have damaged us. The world has damaged us._

"Are you okay?" I ask, hugging him from behind, my hands finding his stomach. I kiss his back softly before resting my cheek on the spot where my lips just touched.

His eyes sag as their unblinking selves focus on the stone in front of him, motion almost foreign to them. His cheeks are covered with tears. Their soaked surface catches the suns reflection like glass. His broad shoulders stand firm and hard. His entire body is stiff. His stance is cold and almost hollow. Both of his strong arms hang at his sides. Only at the wrists do his limbs bend to allow his hands of seek shelter in his pockets.

"It just doesn't seem real sometimes," he says. "With everything that's happened, sometimes I just expect to be back in the bakery getting ready for the reaping, like this is all just some kind of dream."

His arms stiffens. I can feel it. He's having another flashback. I kiss his back again and run my fingers through his soft short hair. Somehow this always brings him back when he's lost in his head.

"I know what you mean," I say.

The truth is that I do. I know what it's like to wake up in the middle of the night, paralyzed with fear. I know what it's like to be trapped inside a dream that just won't ever end. Both the games and the war have changed our lives forever. Nothing seems normal anymore. I'm not even sure what normal is anymore.

"We should get going. The funeral is gonna start soon," I say.

His eyes break away from the stone and flutter around, confused, as he starts to remember where he is.

"Oh, um, yeah."

He steps out of my embrace and gives me a hint of a smile, but it vanishes before I can truly see it.

"Let's go."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I have revised this chapter more times than I can count, but I think I finally got there, close to perfection. PLEASE READ THIS VERSION. I have changed some things in the plot that will alter the story a bit and the overall tone of the chapter. Tell me what you think. Thanks!**

* * *

My hands both grip Peeta's forearm as we slowly walk towards the grave site. My limp head droops at his shoulder. Our synchronized steps mark the dense dirt with our clunky footprints. Rocks tumble around beneath our toes. Everything is gloomy and silent, like all sound has been sucked out of the air.

A large group of people circles around one grave, their heads bowed low and their faces pale from the cold and grief. It seems as though the dark hues that cover their bodies go on for miles. I freeze at the edge of their group, like a force field is formed around them, preventing me from inhabiting their same space of sadness.

_I don't want to be sad. I don't want to grieve. I just want him here. _

My eyes cloud with tears and the crowd vanished from my eyes. Peeta tries to guide me foreword, but I can not move. My breath races in and out of my lungs like it can not decide where to be. That feeling in my heart that I have been trying to avoid hits me like a bullet. I can not handle the pain. His body drops its support of my arm as his fingers knit with mine. He meets my face, his forehead pressed against mine. Tear continue to stream down my eyes. It is too much to bear. My eyes squint shut, trying to escape it, but tragedy consumes me.

My father's laugh fills my ears. The screams from crying mothers and wives fill them. The streets before the mines are in complete chaos. His body is thrown into a hole in the cemetery, his name labeled above him, like he was never really here, with us. Rue collapses to the ground like an injured lamb after slaughter. Cato screams out for mercy, his eye growing big with a plea for help as a pack of hounds tear his flesh apart. I am pulled back by the peace keepers as the man from District 11 is shot in the head, my cries meaning nothing to them. Parachutes rain down on the helpless children of the Capital. Prim leaps foreword to help. I call her name, begging for her to flea. I see her eyes as her body is torched in the name of war, in the name of death.

A broken string of words cracks from within my throat. It is painful, like poison.

"He's one of them," I cry. "He's gone."

Peeta's strong arms wrap around me, pulling me close. My chest shakes as my silent wails release. His grip tightens and he kisses my forehead with his warm lips, protecting me from all that I have endured and showing his love.

"I know," he whispers. "You're safe. It's all over."

His hands stroke my hair as he nestles his head into the crook of my neck.

_Gale is dead. My best friend is dead. He should be here next to me, us against the world. He was too young. His life wasn't meant to end like this. It shouldn't have been done. Not now. Not ever. Gale wasn't supposed to die, I was._

He takes my hand and, still holding me close, under his arm, helps me move into the crowd. Everyone turns my way as I enter, parting ways like the sea in an old forbidden story my father used to tell me.

Some recognize me from before the games, some from after. Neither is a decent depiction.

_I was the tribute. I was the source of the rebellion. Snow came after me. All the odds were stacked against me. He wasn't supposed to die. Not like this. He should be here next to me, us against the world._

_Why now? How am I supposed to go on without him?_

Hazel hugs me tight as I reach the hollow plot. Her womanly frame envelops me with all she has. I can feel her pain, her sorrow, her love. It is as if for a moment we are the same person. Her hands grasp my chin like a delicate baby as we pull apart, her eyes filled with tear, some of them slipping down her cheeks. The words _Thank you,_ spoken silently from her mouth leave me to question why.

Posy clings to her leg, her childish cheeks wet pink like a dewy rose. Rory and Vick stand behind them. They both look so much older. Not only physically, but mentally.

Their faces look like stone, so stunned that you can barely see any emotion, but I know it is there, buried deep inside. They are the little boys that skinned their knees and cried more than someone getting their leg amputated, the ones who did not calm down until Gale got home to tell them that everything was going to be alright, the scared little boys that clung to there mother's legs when their father died. They stand there almost frozen with pain as they stare blankly into the crowd.

_"Broken souls,"_ I call them. Although the connotation of the word _broken_ is not good, in a way the phrase is. The word broken implies that there was something there in the first place, something whole, something so important that even the strongest love in the world could not hold onto it. I guess in a way we are all broken souls, or at least for today.

The new mayor clears his throat before beginning to speak. "Friends and Family, we have gathered here today to celebrate the life of Gale Hawthorne. Gale was born on a cold December night as the first son to Roan and Hazel Hawthorn. Growing up, like most of the other boys in the district, he worked to help the family get by on what little they had. The thing that made him different was his voice and ability to get people to listen, to feel like they had a voice in a world with none.

"When his father, Roan, was killed in a mining accident he stepped up to support his mother, two younger brothers, and newborn sister. At only thirteen years old he started signing up for twice the amount of tesserae, hunting in the woods, and trading whatever he could find so his family wouldn't starve. When times got tough he was there for the cause, ready for the fight with everything he had, and when trouble struck he was there to help all in need. He led hundreds from the ashes of our district to safety and later on added many of his ideas to the revolution that has since shaped our country into something many never thought was possible.

"After that, only few can tell what really happened, so we take comfort in the knowledge that he left by his own choice and by his own hand. May he live a long life in all of our hearts and through the stories of his actions for generations to come. May he rest in peace."

He pauses and everyone bows their heads, in unison, their minds occupying the same thought.

_Gale._

* * *

People cling to their loved ones, their heads hanging low, as they part from the cemetery. A dreary lull of silence sets among them. I sigh deeply and begin to make my way across the dull dead grass. My arm lays interlocked with Haymitch's. Peeta has gone to Victors Village to set up a small gathering of mourners to reminisce.

Hazelle, Rory, Vick, and Posy begin to trudge through the prickling ground, with us. Posy holds onto Vick. Her glassy eyes sit in a perfectly innocent pout. Her little hairs are all brought together in a small braid. The rest hangs wildly down her back, the brown twisting with the black of her worn out dress. Rory follows behind them.

I swap Haymitch's arm for Rory's when I see his face. It is sad and broken. A single tear begs to be released from his eye, but he holds his head up, numb. He has grown to almost my height. I wish Gale were here to see him. He reminds me so much of him. I lean my lead onto his shoulder and he does not protest against it. Instead he sighs and relinquishes a tear. My heart aches slightly.

"Maybe I can show you how to hunt, again," I suggest, sniffling a bit on the last word.

I remember when I first tried to take him out. Gale had been working the mines and did not have enough time, though he wanted to. I had too much time after the games. After everything started up with the Quarter Quell we did not get out. It was too dangerous with Thread around. Although it was not a happy time, I still ache with melancholy. It is hard to remember what it was like to have him with us, with me.

I can feel Rory's small intake of breath.

"I think he would've liked that," I say.

"Yeah, I think he would," he replies, quietly, trying to hold in his sadness, trying to be strong. It is the same thing that Gale went through. He is the man of the house now.

I hug his arm a little bit tighter as he leads me out of the cemetery. As I cross out of the hollow ground, I feel like a piece of me is yanked out of my body, unable to leave, yet I still feel numb. I still feel empty. _Maybe this is what Gale felt like when I left,_ I think. Just the thought of that brings tears to my eyes, but I continue down the cobblestone path, leaving my best friend behind.

* * *

**A/N: There is more to come. I promise. Just give me a few days and I should have another chapter completed. Until then...**


	5. Chapter 5

I do not think that I have ever seen my house so full. People line the walls like wallpaper, each one adding a new design to the room. Others speckle across the floor in random groups, creating a chatter that spreads throughout the entire structure, holding it up, somehow, on this gloomy day. The light scent of cotton and wood-fire lingers in the air, warming my nose to its homey feel.

Rory breaks from my arm and moves into the kitchen to grab a drink. I stand alone in the entryway for a minute, taking in my surroundings. Everything seems like one big blur. My eyes flitter around the ever-changing flocks of people, spotting Peeta in the center of it all.

I smile slightly. He always has had a way with people.

He stands in deep conversation with an unfamiliar blonde girl. Her figure is tall and slender, sporting the only shade of blue in the room. Her eyes stop as soon as they see me, her lips expressing my presence.

Before I can blink, he's beside me. His strong arms wrap around my waist slowly, bringing me closer, absorbing me. His lips lay their stamp on my jaw before convincing the rest of his face to bury itself in my neck, mumbling terms of endearment. A knot is tied by his fingers around my frame. I sigh deeply at his touch, ringing my arms around his neck. He kisses my lips softly, asking if I'm okay. I nod slightly, tears in my eyes.

His hands move up to cup my chin, wiping away my tears with his perfectly carved thumbs. I giggle slightly, still in heart-wrenching pain.

"I want you to meet someone," he whispers, reaching for my hand.

I sink mine into his, our hand fitting into each other's gaps, so that he can tangle me at his whim through the throngs of people. Most of them seem familiar. The kids he used to go to school with. Extended aunts and uncles. Men from the mines. Fellow soldiers from District 13, the longest of their grown-out hair reaching their shoulders. A few politicians from the television spot the room, representing the newly formed life he left behind. I can barely look at them.

Haymitch sits on a stool at the counter with a glass of liquor in his hands and a handsome drinking buddy. They seem friendly, laughing as the whisky pollutes their breath. Greasy Sea continues cooking behind the counter, every burner and oven door stuffed. Mini sweet rolls sit on the buffet table, holding off the masses, for now. Plutarch laughs in the corner, the center of conversation between a few other Capital socialites. Annie bounces baby Tide on her hip, his little legs kicking with exhaustion.

"Katniss, this is Blair Herrick," he smiles, genuinely, as he introduces the beauty to me. Her hair and skin are polished and pale, two dips of blue acting as her eyes, as sirens onto the rocky beach. She's definitely not from here.

"I've heard so much about you," she gushes.

I scoff a bit, under my breath. _Of course you have. The Mockingjay... The murderer of Coin..._

"I was Gale's roommate," she adds. "You guys must have been close. He talked about you all the time."

Johanna soon creeps into my vision and whispers something to Peeta, initiating a conversation. He nods his head and gives an apology to Blair before weaving me through what seems to be an increasing population, to a podium set up at the far wall. Eyes begin to drift towards him and the wooden stand, but it isn't until he tests the voice magnifiers, addressing the crowd, that everyone listens.

"First off, I would like to thank everyone for taking the time to come out here to honor the memory of a friend, brother, son, and soldier," he says, clearing his throat.

"For those of you that don't know, I'm Peeta Mellark. I wouldn't exactly categorize Gale and I as friends. We had a complicated relationship, to say the least. He made Katniss happy. That's really what it came down to for me.

"Now, I'm not gonna say that I knew Gale the best, because I didn't. I still don't understand most of the things he did, but I do respect them. He had courage and guts—a thing lots of people go their whole lives without—and yet somehow we understood each other. We never put ourselves first," he says, sneaking a quick peek my way. "It was never us, it was always our family and the country and Katniss."

"Katniss and him had a special bond, one that I will never completely understand. I know it meant the world to her, and I will never be able to compete with that. He was always there for her. I just wish that I had the chance to thank him for that, for everything. And wherever he is now, I wish him the best, because he deserves it."

Hazelle goes next, sharing a story of him waddling around in his father's boots and how he used to whistle with him as they whittled their hunting weapons together. I've never heard anything about him before. They didn't like to bring it up too often. It was just too hard. I'm surprised how well Hazelle is able to keep herself together, but she does, her eyes squinted as she smiles with fondness, tears prickling her corneas. It's like for a moment, when she speaks of him, he's still with us. I even managed to pick my chin up from the ground, imagining the boy I once knew, the boy with the bow.

My heart aches during Rory's speech. He talks in the present, as if they are at the pond now, Gale teaching him how to swim or stand up for himself. His eyes stare at the wall across the room from him, not wanting to look anyone in the face, in fear of crying. Out of all three of them, he seems to be having the hardest time. He was Gale's second in command, always holding down the fort while we went hunting, always asking what to do when things got tough.

Thom tells a few jokes that Gale used to say in the mines to keep up the boys' spirits. His new friends from District 2 tell stories through stuttered laughs and giggles. Haymitch gets uncharacteristically teary-eyed, the cup of whiskey still in his hand. Blair can barely keep it together, sobbing about his generosity and heart like an inconsolable mother.

Thom tells a few jokes that Gale used to say in the mines to keep up the boys' spirits. His new friends from District 2 told stories through stuttered laughs and giggles. Haymitch gets uncharacteristically teary-eyed, the cup of whiskey still in his hands. Blair can barely keep it together, sobbing about his generosity and heart like an inconsolable mother.

All air leaves my lungs when she's finished. _I'm up._ My smooth thumb graces under my eye in attempt to stop the tears that have trickled with every word, but it doesn't really help much.

_Ugh, I must look a mess,_ I think, and almost laugh for the first time in weeks. Almost.

My mouth grows dry as it opens to the microphone. There are no notecards in front of me, something Effie would have scolded me against not too long ago. In hindsight, I probably should have made some kind of preparation, but it just didn't feel right.

"I want to say that me and Gale were always friends. That kind of thing sounds like the stuff you read in books, two friends that had always been joined at the hip and done everything together. That wasn't exactly true, for us. We met in the woods when I was 12 years old. Both of our fathers had died not long before that, in a mining accident. I had only ever possibly caught a few glances of him from at school, that was until I stumbled on his expert snares in the woods. I promised to teach him how to hunt if he could show me how to do a few. It took some time to get used to having a partner, for both of us, but after a while it just felt natural... like we'd always been there."

My eyes start to water so much that I can barely see the crowd in front of me. "And even though he left of his own wishes... it hurts to know that he's not here anymore..." I squint my eyes and pause in pain from the words coming out of my mouth, but they need to be said.

"You know, not many people saw him the way I did, and I think many of you know that, but he touched so many people. He wanted to change the world, for the better, unlike anything I'd ever seen before... and I think he did."

My lips starts to quiver with overcoming sadness. Slowing I bring three chill fingers to my lips and kiss them softly, wet tears dripping down my skin as raise them in the air.

It means thanks, it means admiration, it means good-bye to someone you love, it means, "To Gale."

* * *

Peeta's fingers stroke the backside of my hand slowly, relaxing my pulse into a steady pulse. My eyes are sunken into my head, rearing their under-circles, and my shoulders slump as proper posture slowly slips from my mind.

"Peeta, how long do all of these people have stay?" I ask, quietly, as I notice how rude I must sound.

"Being cheery, as always?" Johanna asks, sarcastically, as she approaches sweetheart necklined black dress hug her frame perfectly, opening with a slit in the middle of her thighs. Matching expensive heels tapped beneath her on the hard wood. Her once patchy buzz cut hair has grown back to the shoulder length locks that once defined her. She looks whole.

Peeta smiles. "Hi, Johanna. It's nice to see you."

"Considering the circumstances, I'd say not, but how are you two _love birds_ doing?" she says, raising her right eyebrow to us.

"Fine, Johanna," Peeta smiles, slightly, placing his hand on my back, soothing me.

"Really? Not _really_ good? I heard around here that you've talked about moving in and marriage. I mean, maybe the District 12's innocent little princess isn't so—"

I blanch. "Fine, Johanna," Peeta interjects. "We're doing fine." He almost sounds angry.

"Whatever, I was just trying to be nice, show some interest. This day sucks!" she announces, almost loudly.

I take a deep breath. _She always hits it right on the head._

A tall handsome man that spoke at the podium earlier politely interrupts our conversation. His voice is deep and his shoulders are broad. The slight scent of aftershave licks his chin. His hair is also trimmed and gelled back, its shape growing more at the top rather than the sides. Two drops of blue dip into the pigments of his face, sparkling towards their matching whites. Despite this, he still reminded me of Gale. There was just something about him, that little _quality_ that identifies a person.

"Um, I'm sorry to interrupt. I have to head back to District 2 soon, but I needed to talk something over with you," he explains, to Peeta.

"Oh, yes! I'm so sorry. I forgot," he apologizes. "Um, Katniss, Johanna, this is Romeo. Romeo, Katniss, Johanna."

"Well, you've sure got his panties in a twist," Johanna jokes, smirking slightly in Romeo's direction. He looks taken back a bit. "What? That can't be the first time you've heard that? I mean, you look like quite the connoisseur."

"That's enough, Johanna," Peeta demands.

She groans. "Ugh, you're no fun, today," she complains, walking towards the bar.

"I'll be back," he promises, whispering into my ear.

My hands hold each other in front of me as I stand alone towards the wall, accepting my lonely fate. I'm not really interested in much company.

My eyes slowly revolve around the room like one of those panoramic photos they have in the Capital. The entire scene is dull and grey. People exhaust their conversations, moving around like a repeating tape, until it almost seems constant, all of the quiet mumbling, louder arguments, high pitched cackles. Time goes by smoothly, in one slow fluid movement. It's almost soothing, just sitting back and watching the predictable muck run about, or more like waltz.

Thom joins me after a while and I am not sure if it is to inspire conversation of accompany me in the dreary admiration.

The silence continues, both of us just looking into the crowd, until he speaks.

"Sometimes this entire thing makes me sick, you know? Everyone comes here not to mourn but catch on the latest gossip and everything that disgusted us. None of them really care. He was there and now he's not and all of them will move on. It's people like us that get to carry the damage while they go off and play their silly little games. That'll never change."

My eyes water as what he's saying resonated with me. I slowly walk away from my post, numb, but soon run, bolting away from the scene, tears running down my cheeks. I shut the door behind me when I reach my room, leaning against it for support. My breath is heaving with cries. I step forward and lean onto the wooden bedpost like a cane, making it hold me up entirely.

_I'm one of them,_ I think to myself, crying hysterically. _I'm one of those narcissistic people that Gale used to spit on in the woods. I betrayed him. That's why he left. That's why he couldn't bear to look at me or talk to me. He saw who I had become. _

My fingers ran through my now unruly hair as the tears wore on, ripping all emotion and feeling out of me, breaking my heart with each revelation that crossed my mind.

_The Capital changed who I am. I changed. I didn't shoot him. I wasn't there. I betrayed him like no one else could._

_He loved me._

_He loved me. _

_He loved me, and then he didn't. _

The door cracks open enough to see someone's curious pupils spot my huddled figure on the bed. The sweater that has warmed the bare back of my dress now lays discarded on the floor and I am in a ball, knees secured under my arms, in the middle of the mattress. A run hikes its way up my leg, exposing my flesh to the winter. My cheeks are wet and eyes still full. The sobs have only slowed slightly, mostly in reaction to the stranger's presence.

He opens it up all the way, gasping with pain at my weeps, and I see that it's Peeta. His eyes mimic a deer's, scared and helpless. He shuts the door and makes his way over to me, getting onto the bed behind me. His warmth hits my back, but I don't feel the usual comfort. The pain is too excruciating. His nimble fingers push my hair to the side, stroking it.

"What's wrong, baby?" he asks.

It takes me a while to respond. "I can't do it, Peeta," I hiccup. "I can't go out there and pretend that everything is fine, because it's not. I miss him, but I don't even deserve to miss him."

"What do you mean?"

His voice sounds genuinely confused and I ache at his sinless views of me, his soul unable to recognize the evils that live within me, the ones that always have. Tears cloud my vision, turning everything blurry, like I've drained the liquor cabinet. But I haven't. I am painfully sober, my mind numbing itself with reality.

"I treated him like crap, Peeta! I didn't deserve him," I admit. "I hurt everyone. I'm hostile and manipulative and selfish. Everyone is gone because of me. I hurt everyone that gets close to me. And he knew it. When I came back from the games he saw that I was different, but he still loved me, and there was still always something missing. I was still always out for myself, and now he's gone. How am I supposed to move on from this?"

I turn to him, watching his fuzzy figure through my lashes. I am completely broken.

"You just do," he says. "And we have each other. I promise, that I will never leave you."

His soft lips press against my forehead and I cup my hands around his chin, bringing to my lips. His thumbs wipe the tears from my cheeks as his lips caress mine. It's one of those perfect kisses, like the ones you read about in books. His lips are simple and kind as his thumbs wipe the tears from my eyes, but I need him. My body aches with a need for his affection.

I deepen our kiss and he follows suit, his strong hands pulling he closer to his warm chest. It's like he's lit a match. I move against him as our breath grow ragged, his lips worshiping me. My fingers tug at his hair and he moans, but his body tenses. I try to relax him some more, running my other hand across his muscular back. He moans again and I wrap my legs around his torso, egging him on. I want this. I want him so bad. I need him.

His mouth continues to devour me, his teeth tugging at my lip. Our connection is burning me alive, ravaging me. His hands still grip my waist tight, so I reach up to the collar of his shirt, opening a few of his buttons. He moans, but yet against stiffens.

"Hey, I love you," I say, my fingers trailing down his torso, for his buckle. He instantly recoils, pushing himself away from me slightly.

"Oh, okay, no. Not tonight, baby," he says, pulling his face away for breath. "Not like this. I want out first time together to be special, not rushed and regretted. Your head's just clouded."

"No, it's not. I love you. Please!" I beg, close to tears, yet again. I just need some human closeness right now, and he knows that. I need to not feel so empty.

"I can't do that to you," he says, steadying his breath. He kneels beside my panting body, re-buttoning his shirt. He sighs, kissing my lips tenderly, and I'm utterly confused, not sure what to feel exactly. "Would you like me to get another pair of stockings from the draw for you? You have a run in those," he asks. I am motionless. "Katniss?"

I slowly sit up, still in shock, and shake my head.

"Then you should at least take them off. We're not outside in the cold anymore. You should be fine without them," he suggests and I comply, handing them to him to put in the hamper. I stand up, moving towards the mirror, and examine myself.

My skin looks paled, but my cheeks are flush, probably still from out minutes of passion. My hair has not survived well since I took it out of the braided updo. It looks flat and slept on and wavy in only some places, so I brush it through and tie it in a messy bun at the crown of my head, just wanting it up. A few tendrils slip out, but it still looks presentable. My eyes, on the other hand, look almost glossy, despite the under-eye circles that plague me. I decided against the now-floor-sweater. I need the pretty lace sleeves to compensate for the rest of me.

Peeta walks out of the bathroom and up behind me, slowly, like broken glass has lined the hard wood. He stops only about a inch away, his sweet breath apparent on my neck. He zips back up the top foot of my dress that I had undone during my meltdown, hating its posture-promoting qualities, therefore covering back up my bra. The hands that had held me close to him run down the sides of my arms as they stand by my sides. The lips that had devoured me, begged me for more, press against my skin, right beneath my ear.

"You look beautiful," he whispers, soothing me. His hand reaches out for mine. "Come on. They're all probably looking for us."

I slowly take his hand, still wounded from before, still wondering what I did wrong.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry it took longer than excepted. Life is good at surprises. Still more to come on this chapter, soon-ish. Stay patient. Tell me what you think so far.**


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